Tales from the Lower Decks
by KCS
Summary: The adventures of an ordinary Maintenance man aboard the Enterprise, and his observations of the developing trifold powerhouse which is Kirk, Spock, and McCoy. This bit: Ensign Turner is the first responder to the site of an accident involving the First Officer.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Introduction, or,_ If You Give a Vulcan a Marshmelon..._  
**Series**: Tales from the Lower Decks  
**Written for**: LiveJournal's **st_20_fics** Table, **Prompt #18 - "Mine."**  
**Characters**: Spock, Kirk, OC Matthew Turner (seen elsewhere such as_ A Celebration in Infinite Combinations _and _Insontis_)  
**Warnings/Spoilers:** written by me? :P  
**Series Summary**: The adventures of an ordinary Maintenance man aboard the _Enterprise_, and his observations of the developing trifold powerhouse which is Kirk, Spock, and McCoy.  
**This Bit** **Summary: **Spock learns that his new captain cares more for his crew than for regulations, and Ensign Turner learns why you never leave a cup of coffee unattended in the _Enterprise _engine rooms.  
**This Bit Word Count**: 3543  
**A/N**: Having abandoned my NaNo temporarily because it had ground to a very painful, very boring halt (and I only do NaNo because I enjoy writing; once I start hating a fic I know it's time to give it a break and plan a little better the second time around), I am beginning this series of ficlets/oneshots for **st_20_fics**, with the prompt table linked above. They will all be Triumvirate-centric, more so than this introductory one, so just bear with me while I establish an OC POV before moving on to the better ones. I'm just fooling around and having fun here, people, so expect anything from crack to angst and all the universes in-between.

* * *

People think that life aboard a starship is full of danger, or full of boredom, or equal parts of both, and I guess that's true - especially aboard this particular ship - but just the same, it's not always an away mission gone wrong, or a planetary emergency, or something else that spells disaster for a lot of people. Yes, the _Enterprise_ has a higher mortality and casualty rate than any other ship in Starfleet, but that's because she's the flagship, and she's the deepest into space, and furthest from outside aid. The death toll would be even higher if she had another commander and command chain, and everyone knows it. Knows it, understands the risks, and dreams of serving aboard her anyway.

Because it's a highly-sought-after honor to serve on the Federation's flagship, and it's an experience every cadet dreams about and only a select group ever get to see materialize. That's why people like myself, who score high enough to be placed in Ops aboard another ship but only in Maintenance on _this_ ship, turn down the higher position just for the chance to serve on the _Enterprise_. Sweeping the mess hall floor and repairing malfunctioning ductwork on the _Enterprise_ is still more of an adventure (literally, sometimes, because have you seen what tribble fur can do to ductwork!) than overseeing tacticians and navigators on a less spectacular, less iconic vessel.

So yes, the risks are high, that's a given on this ship. You'd think with the high mortality rate, not to mention the frequency with which one or other of the primary command team seems to attract trouble like a supermagnet: with those, you'd think the atmosphere of the ship would be tense, or at least all business and no pleasure. And it is, sometimes (definitely when Mr. Spock's the one doing the department inspections, for one); but it's not like that all the time. No one would be able to thrive in that kind of environment, and so the _Enterprise_ is always humming with energy, and it's the most fantastic atmosphere to work in you could possibly imagine.

This is due, in part, to the fabulous Medical staff the _Enterprise_ has. Dr. McCoy may be a fearsome fellow, with a temper to match his low tolerance for malingering, but he's by far the clear expert in his fields, and a dashed good shrink to boot. He's got a finger on the pulse of the crew, and it's due in part to him and his staff that we have a lower depression rate and a higher efficiency during down time than anyone else. He works with Recreation on a regular basis to make sure there are enough activities to keep the crew entertained, and makes regular check-ups (sometimes using blackmail to do so, but that's a different story) on members of the crew who might be slipping just a tad in their efficiency. Everyone says the brain of the ship is of course Commander Spock; and if that's true, then Dr. McCoy is the blood that feeds every part of the ship's body, keeping it alive and healthy and full of energy.

And of course, there's the captain - the heart of the ship. Captain Kirk's a very strange commander, one of the most innovative and therefore the most shocking among his peers. Gossip travels, fast even across the cosmos, and Kirk's revolutionary methods and brash charisma whirlwinded the _Enterprise_ into newsfeeds everywhere when she was launched. Many of the old captain's crew were horrified at his overthrowing long-standing traditions aboard - like repeating orders across the Bridge, for example. Lieutenant Uhura says Kirk stopped that particular procedure the second week aboard, by scowling at his alpha shift crew and declaring that if anyone on the Bridge couldn't listen to an order the first time around, he wanted him booted down to Waste Recycling for a few weeks, and to for heaven's sake stop making his head spin with the shouting.

Reportedly, Mr. Spock looked a bit horrified at the disregard for decades-long regulation, but the guy apparently learned early that what Kirk wants, he gets. And Spock knows how to pick his battles, believe me.

But Kirk's a strange one. People say he's over-confident, even arrogant - but that's not true. There's a fine line between _self_-confidence and _over_-confidence, and Kirk dances that line continually, once in a while falling over one side or the other but usually right on the button regarding his own abilities and his complete faith in his crew. The man can talk his way out of anything, anytime - I've seen him spin ridiculous tales that my daft maiden aunt wouldn't believe, and yet the people he's trying to fool somehow instinctively take his word for it. That's just the kind of confidence the man inspires.

Is it effective? Obviously. Is it annoying? Definitely. (Don't ever play poker with the captain, trust me.) Is it hilarious? Absolutely. The fellow can bluff his way in and out of a bar full of drunk Klingons without a scratch (and has done), has fooled Romulan and Orion and who-knows-what-other ships into fleeing us in terror, without firing a single shot. Everybody at Starfleet Academy now uses the phrase _Corbomite Maneuver_ in tactical classes and common usage, to mean a so-masterful-it's-almost-ludicrous bluff that pays off big - and for good reason. I mean, who else can yank a _Vulcan's_ chain with some ridiculous yarn and not get himself killed (metaphorically or otherwise) in the process?

Kirk's one-of-a-kind, that's certain. Any other commander would have had my head (and Mr. Scott did, figuratively at least), for the stupid mistake I made my second month aboard.

Working in Engineering and Maintenance does become a bit tedious after a while. Mr. Scott's so protective of his engines that you'd better not touch one without his expression permission and a signature in blood; and if it's a slow week aboard and no one's going around breaking hatchway hinges or clogging up drains there's not much a maintenance worker has to do around the department.

I would say I could be excused for being the blundering fool that I was…except that it's really not true; I was a moron and everyone knew it.

Engineering on the _Enterprise_ is a bit of a relaxed place, due to Engineer Scott's unique influence. He believes people work better when there's not someone hanging over their shoulders waiting for them to make a blunder, and so he implements rigorous training routines which everyone has to complete - on their own time - before they're allowed to touch the transporter or the warp engines. It's a good way to weed out the serious engineers from the ones who landed there because their psych scores didn't qualify them for Security. And because Scott knows that the people who pass his muster are then completely qualified, he basically lets them be when we're not engaged in battle mode or making major repairs. This lot all get along famously, due to the friendly atmosphere and the knowledge that we all have enough blackmail on Scott to ensure he will always treat us fairly (as if he wouldn't anyway).

I could say it was due to the fact that the entire department was panicking over a surprise inspection, courtesy of Mr. Spock's latest determination to make certain everything was functioning at peak capacity…but really, it was my own stupidity. We'd only just finished replacing the panels in the engine room, the ones which conceal storage areas for smuggled goods (then empty, thank goodness), when we heard Mr. Spock's unmistakable voice verbally eviscerating…that is, _interrogating_ our poor Chief Engineer about some irregular readouts. Ensign Riley and I made a quick final sweep of the room and then made a hasty getaway, scooting past what looked like a nervous Montgomery Scott and a quietly amused Captain Kirk as we returned to our stations on the upper deck of the primary Engineering work area.

None of us were quite sure what to think of Kirk, or Spock for that matter, at that point in the game; it had been only six months since the ship's initial departure on a shakedown cruise, and only three months since the final personnel changes and the real departure for deep space had begun.

"Mr. Scott, these modifications do not fall into line with Starfleet regulations for warp flux capacity," I heard Mr. Spock drone, not unpleasantly - just firmly.

"Ah…well. About that, Mr. Spock." Bless his heart, Scotty was making a desperate attempt to look nonchalant and failing miserably. "Y'see, the _Enterprise_…well, sir, she's a very particular lady! Needs a…personalized touch, so to speak."

"Really, Mr. Scott." Spock looked totally unimpressed, though the captain was paying far too close attention to his fingernails in a failed attempt to hide a boyish grin.

Riley gave me a raised eyebrow, and we both relaxed a bit.

Just a bit.

"Really, sir!" Scott's earnest face was slowly growing red with nerves and exertion. "I can promise ye that -"

Expressionless, Spock interrupted as if he had never quite finished his previous thought. "Lieutenant-Commander, your _promises_ will not negate Starfleet Command's questions regarding these highly irregular modifications."

"But sir! Mr. Spock, y'see they are most necess-"

"Spock," the captain spoke up for the first time, in a quiet undertone. He gave his First an undecipherable look, and then turned his full attention to our poor quailing Chief Engineer. "Mr. Scott knows these engines better than anyone aboard. Scotty, as long as you can get us from resting speed to Warp Five in less than thirty seconds to get my crew and my ship out of danger if and when I call for it, that's pretty much all I care about."

"Captain. To move from resting speed to Warp Five in that amount of time is not only highly improbable, but definitely against design regulations, as the ship's schematics clearly state," Spock answered, a twitch of a frown creasing his brow.

"Like I said." Kirk's sharp eyes flicked back to Scott, who was staring at his superior as if the man had suddenly grown a second head. "If you can do such a thing, and it will save lives when I call for it someday, well. _That_ is the result I expect and demand from you, Mr. Scott."

Our poor chief's face lit up like a holiday tree, as he bounced on his toes in sudden comprehension.

"Captain," Spock was still protesting, bless his logical heart (if he has one, which according to Medical is debatable). "This is highly against all protocol, and as such I -"

"Mr. Spock," Kirk sighed, patting the stiff blue arm gently. "Go to that precious idiomatic dictionary of yours and look up the phrase _plausible deniability_ for me, would you?"

Scott was grinning so wide his head was pretty much neatly divided in two, and at Spock's puzzled frown and subsequent typing away at his data-padd our gallant superior might have lost it entirely - except for the fact that a sudden drain of power and wailing of alert sirens filled the room, followed by the sickening moan of the _Enterprise_'s powerful warp engines screeching to an unscheduled, and therefore highly alarming, halt.

"What i' the name of the devil!" Scott exclaimed, diving for the nearest readout screen.

"Are you still of the same opinion regarding these…unusual, modifications, sir?" Spock asked innocently, with what I would swear was a Vulcan eyebrow-smirk of wicked irony.

Kirk's scowl was answer enough, as he looked over Scott's shoulder at the readout. "Total engine shutdown for security reasons?" he read incredulously. "Due to what?"

"I dinna know, Captain. But you can be sure I'm gonna find out."

* * *

And find out he did, unfortunately for me and all of us poor fools in Engineering. There was no great harm done, thankfully, but that didn't stop Scott from lining us all up in front of our not-so-genial-anymore captain and explaining in gruesome detail precisely what had happened to cause that engine shutdown.

Captain Kirk's eyes got wider and wider as Scott explained, until finally he was just blatantly staring at our CE, eyebrows halfway up his forehead.

"Let me get this straight," Kirk finally interrupted Scott's tirade (a feat of bravery in itself). He pinched his forehead between a thumb and forefinger, slowly raising his eyes to look up and down the line of nervous personnel. "You're telling me that a constitution-class starship's warp engines had to be shut down by the ship's safety computer, because….someone _left a cup of coffee on the warp coils, and it melted_?"

When put like that, it did sound a bit like a grammar school lad blowing up a pot noodle in the mircrowave, and I couldn't help but blush in utter mortification and the wish to simply disappear into the flooring.

"That's about it, Cap'n," Scott growled, accompanied by much dramatic arm-waving.

Kirk stared at the gathering of us poor sods who were unfortunate enough to be within earshot when the Horrible Event happened. "And exactly whose cup of coffee was that, gentlemen?"

I was never so proud as I was then, to be part of so loyal a group. Scott's primary rule, after safety, was Unity within departments; no one was ever to give Engineering's secrets away.

"Gentlemen, I have no compunction about putting you _all_ on report for dereliction of duty and delaying our mission, if you refuse to produce the culprit," the captain continued after a silent moment, and though his face was still calm the voice now held chilled steel, a warning of danger to come should the order not be obeyed.

I swallowed, and decided facing the music was better than having the music come find you later and transfer you to a garbage scow. "Um. It was mine, sir," I spoke up and stepped forward before I could lose my nerve, though I wished my voice wasn't quite so loud in the now eerily silent department.

"Mr. Matthews," Kirk said, not an inquiry but a statement - everyone knew he could name each crewman on sight, unlike many starship captains. His voice was stern, but not yet to that pants-wetting-inducing tone that indicated one was about to be booted out an airlock or, worse, subjected to one of Mr. Spock or Dr. McCoy's infamous serial Safety Lectures, and so I took heart (very feeble, very weak heart). "Care to tell me why you even _had_ a cup of coffee near the warp coils?"

"Um." I coughed lightly, and tried not to squirm or give myself away with any nervous tells, like rubbing the back of my neck. Or running for the door. "Was…I was just warming it up, sir. On the coils. It'd gone cold, y'see, sir. And in the rush I guess I just…forgot to pick it back up." A chorus of groans rose up from behind me at my stupidity, and I looked down at the floor briefly before trying again to meet the captain's eyes.

Kirk just blinked. "You were reheating your coffee on the warp coils."

"…Aye, sir." I cringed, hoping I would not be beginning my Starfleet career in utter disgrace for a mistake no rookie even would make. "Normally it's not such a big thing," I tried to mitigate by explaining, "it's just that the cup was made of plasticene, naturally…and -"

"Matthews, just shut up while ye can," Scott groaned, face planted in both large hands.

"No, no," Kirk interrupted, to my surprise, waving a hand impatiently. "I take it this is a regular activity down here?"

"Ah…" I glanced sideways, and found my fellow Engineering mates uneasily looking around the room, shuffling slightly. "On occasion?" I had been brought up never to lie to an authority, but upon extensive retrospection I believe perhaps I should begin that habit for the protection of my own stupidity.

"Fascinating," Spock averred, in a tone which clearly said _ye-gods-why-must-I-live-amongst-these-morons-and-can-I-get-away-with-dispatching-any-of-them-in-unfortunate-transporter-accidents_.

Some brave - or stupid - fool in the back of the crowd evidently saw something in the captain's face that I was too new, and too unfamiliar, to discern; for he suddenly piped up cheerfully with a blithe, "We make some mean shish-kebabs on 'em too, Captain."

Another chorus of groans and a swat or two to the head punctuated the idiot's comment, and I glanced warily at Kirk to see his reaction.

To my shock, the captain was actually grinning at this point. I stared at him for a moment, and then felt my knees go weak with relief.

"Gentlemen," Kirk finally said, both hands upraised in a gesture of peace once the disgusted chaos had died down a bit. "I would prefer that the equipment in this department be used for its intended purpose and no other from now on." Half the personnel looked guiltily at each other. "Am I understood?"

"Quite, sir," Scott vowed fervently, glaring murder at all of us.

"Then, as we fortunately are running three days ahead of schedule on this next mission, I see no reason to belabor the point by reprimanding anyone," the captain continued, oblivious to Spock's eyebrows inching upward by degrees with every word. "Including you, Mr. Matthews." A glint of humor sparkled in Kirk's piercing eyes, as he grinned in my general direction. "Tell me, were you one of those children who forgot to take the fork out of the takeaway before putting it in the microwave?"

"Sir," I muttered (not about to admit I had been), ears flaming, as the entire department erupted into half-hysterical laughter borne of relief and adrenaline. Still, I could tell the jibe was meant in a good-natured way, rather than a desire to humiliate; Kirk's companionable grin and a gentle elbow as he passed me on his way out of the engine room only confirmed that.

"Oh, and gentlemen," the captain called back over his shoulder, pausing in the entryway. Spock, still obviously in shock over the illogicality of humans, automatically stood back in deference, head tilted to one side in an attempt to analyze our irrational human ways.

"Sir?" Scott asked warily.

"If you ever have a marshmallow-toasting party, make sure you invite me," Kirk quipped, flashing one more brilliant smile. "I make a great s'more."

And then he left, followed closely by a very mystified Commander Spock. Riley and I stared at each other for a second in incredulous amazement, slowly shaking our heads at the fact that I hadn't just been torn a new one for endangering the ship with my own idiocy.

"Sir, I am unfamiliar with the concept of a marsh-mellow?" We then heard Spock's puzzled inquiry.

"Oh my _gosh_, are you _serious_?" Kirk's mock-horrified outburst rang clearly through the department. "You guys, make sure you invite Spock too!" he called back through the open doors, obviously grinning.

"Captain, I assure you a personal demonstration will _not_ be necessary -"

"Oh, but I assure you, Mr. Spock, this is an experiment that most _definitely_ requires hands-on participation to gather the full spectrum of pertinent details necessary to formulate and test your hypothesis."

"…Captain. Your logic is…"

"Inescapable?"

"Skewed, sir."

"Ah. Well, we can't all be perfect. Mr. Scott, let me know when you've scraped that plasticene off the coils, will you? We've got a medical convoy to catch at Beta Centauri."

Scott looked more resigned than anything else at this point, which was a definite improvement upon murderous fury at the moron who violated his precious engines. "Aye, Captain," he called back, sighing. Then his eagle eye fell upon me. "And as for you, Mr. Matthews. I believe you have several hours of unpaid overtime to get started on?"

"Aye, sir." I was not at all unhappy about the fact, either; just being forced to scrape the melted plasticene off the coils was small enough punishment for an offense that could easily have gone on my record.

"Y'know, the marshmallows are a really good idea, though," someone said thoughtfully from behind me.

"I bet pancakes would do pretty well, too," another chimed in.

"We could have waffle Mondays!"

"An' ye could all be transferred inta Mr. Spock's stellar cartography labs!" Scott bellowed above the rising hubbub.

Dead silence.

"Gee, Scotty, that's harsh," Charlene Masters muttered, swatting the man on the arm as she went back to her station.

"Yeah, nobody deserves that," Riley chimed in, grinning.

"Ah…you do realize we're both still in the department making computer checks, gentlemen?" Captain Kirk's amused voice suddenly called from the other room.

"Awwww, crap. Vulcan hearing," Riley hissed in dismay, peeking warily around the edge of the doorway.

"Indeed, Ensign," came the deep voice, and Spock came around the corner, clipboard in hand. Riley squeaked and stumbled backwards, tripping over his own boots and an oversized hydrospanner in the process and promptly knocking one of the dilithium crystals out of alignment.

I, conversely, performed what was perhaps the most intelligent action of my career to that date.

I used a Jefferies Tube and ran for it.

Consequently, I live to tell the tale, and to host marshmallow-toasting nights when the captain has had a particularly stressful mission.

But that is another story.


	2. Chapter 2

******Title**: Potential  
**Series**: Tales from the Lower Decks  
**Written for**: **st_20_fics** Table, **Prompt #16 - "There's more to life than _."**  
**Characters**: Spock, Kirk, OC Matthew Turner (seen elsewhere such as_ A Celebration in Infinite Combinations _and _Insontis_)  
**Warnings/Spoilers:** written by me? :P  
**Series Summary**: The adventures of an ordinary Maintenance man aboard the _Enterprise_, and his observations of the developing trifold powerhouse which is Kirk, Spock, and McCoy.  
**This Bit** **Summary: **Ensign Turner learns that he's not the only one with quick reflexes.  
**This Bit Word Count**: 2916  
**A/N**: Having abandoned my NaNo temporarily because it had ground to a very painful, very boring halt (and I only do NaNo because I enjoy writing; once I start hating a fic I know it's time to give it a break and plan a little better the second time around), I am beginning this series of ficlets/oneshots for **st_20_fics**, with the prompt table linked above. They will all be Triumvirate-centric, more so than these introductory ones, so just bear with me while I establish an OC POV and let some initial time pass before moving on to the better ones. I'm just fooling around and having fun here, people, so expect anything from crack to angst and all the universes in-between.

**A/N2:** I just realized that I referred to the crewman in the first fic by the wrong name throughout, mixing him up with a minor character named Matthews that I fleshed out in _ACiIC_, who goes the way of all redshirts in _Miri_. Characterization was right, name was wrong. Sorry about that, to anyone who is jarred by that type of glaring inconsistency.

* * *

**Prompt #16 - "There's more to life than _."**

One really fantastic thing about being aboard a ship like this, is that life in space is far too short to carry grudges. Your mistakes may have consequences, but only the most rude of people will keep tossing them back in your face after you've been forgiven. The risks here are much too great for petty feuds to develop, the reality of a dangerous occupation foremost in everyone's minds in regards to their relationships with even the most annoying of people.

Still, occasionally somebody does something that's one for the books, and he either goes down in history or ignominy because it's so over-the-top as to be worthy of multiple recalls.

Poor Kevin Riley was one of those unfortunate crewmen who would be forever remembered: for singlehandedly overriding crucial computer codes and holding the ship hostage during a medical crisis, his crowning act as 'captain' being bequeathing double portions of ice cream on his appropriated crew as they were forced to listen to a serenade of what must be the most annoying song on any of the British Isles (and this from a Northern lad, who grew up on too many twee Scottish ballads to be mentally healthy).

Riley's had a great attitude about the ribbing he still gets occasionally, good-natured or no (the captain for one was not a merry man), though for about a week after the Psi2000 incident he was too mortified to show his face at a public meal time. Hikaru Sulu had accepted his crewman-chasing, sword-fighting adventure with shameless pride, and had pulled off an aloof self-deprecation that even Captain Kirk would be proud of - but poor Kevin, the lad would barely walk the corridors for a week afterward, taking Jefferies tubes instead from his cabin corridor to Engineering, and hiding himself away again as soon as his shift was over.

I for one had escaped the effects of the virus, though I witnessed firsthand the degenerating crew morale below decks and was called upon to break up a few fights. None of us really had any idea the danger we were in until we learned what was happening in Engineering, with the ship going down and the engines totally cold. The idea of crashing on an imploding planet or blowing ourselves to pieces with a cold engine start was enough to scare me out of my wits, and if most of the crew had still possessed any inhibition whatsoever it would have been enough to sober them all up right quick. As it stood, however, we made it safely out of our decaying orbit and, in fact, back in time.

Back in bloody _time_.

I mean! No other starship has ever even contemplated a successful time-warp, though the Vulcans have occasionally dabbled in the theoretics of it; and certainly no one has dared to attempt it since, other than our fabulous _Enterprise_ on two other occasions. We made history that day, and Spock's Science departments were geeking about it for months afterwards. They'll be telling their grandchildren someday, no doubt, how their First Officer came up with the intermix formula that would propel a starship into time warp.

Oddly enough, however, Commander Spock himself didn't seem overly enthusiastic with his remarkable discovery and its successful field trial. You'd think he would be over the moon…so to speak, though Lieutenant Uhura tells me Vulcan doesn't have a moon…but instead, he was just a bit distant for the remainder of that historical day, and most of the next.

He and Captain Kirk spent a deal of time in Engineering the day after McCoy's miracle serum had been distributed, working with Scotty on an engine overhaul and going back over Mr. Spock's calculations in order to present their findings to Starfleet Command. I've a friend who works in the Astrophysics labs, and she soundly swears that if you know how to look, Spock has tells of excitement and other emotions that are unmistakable; you just have to know how to interpret his body language rather than his facial expression and speech. But I could see nothing except a weird sort of tension between him and the captain, the whole time they were in Engineering. Granted, 'twas none of my business, and I'd no intention of _making_ it my business, but Fate is an odd old girl at times, and gave me an opportunity to make sense of the rumors that were beginning to float around this ship of ours.

I certainly didn't believe the one that said Captain Kirk and his First Officer had gotten into a hair-pulling catfight in a deserted briefing room just before the emergency warp engine implosion - nor did I think the one about Nurse Chapel jumping Spock in a deserted corridor had any chance (hope, in her case, probably) of being true. That Sulu had chased six Security men down the corridor with a fencing epee, calling himself the Japanese Zorro, was probably utter rubbish, while the one about McCoy throwing a medical scanner at a technician's head when he was standing around giggling under the influence, I thought might be the most likely one of the bunch to be truthful, or at least near so. And that, only because it was certainly within the realm of probability to happen on a day when we _weren't_ infested with a deadly virus and the ship spiraling toward an impending supernova.

Just the same, Maintenance did get a call to replace a chair in the briefing room closest to Sickbay, one that's hardly ever used unless much of the ship is locked down (1), and there was obvious tension between Captain Kirk and Commander Spock. The lads in Engineering are, at this point in our five-year mission, beginning to fondly call them _KirkenSpock_ behind their backs, because while our COs were rather carefully distant at the beginning of this voyage it's become less and less common to see one without the other.

I was surprised but not displeased to be called to fill a work order from Ship's Stores and Requisitions, apparently being next on the roster for repair duty. Certainly, fixing a pipe in KirkenSpock's shared lavatory was preferable to re-wiring fried computer circuitry in the Communications department, under the watchful and expert eye of Lieutenant Uhura. The pipe in question had apparently burst - along with many such pipes and ductwork aboard - when we'd been suddenly hurled into such immensely accelerated speed while trying to escape the gravitational pull of the imploding Psi2000. No starship, even the _Enterprise_, was built for time warp, amazing an experience though it was, and as such Maintenance was having a field day with repairs all over the ship. And of course, the captain's plumbing always gets preference over the less vital areas of the ship.

'Twas an unusual chance to see how the Privileged Ones differed in accommodations than the common people below decks, though. Most of us poor sods reside in the standard cabins - a tiny cubicle with two bunks, a shared wardrobe, and not much else. A favored few have a desk or couch, but starship cabins are built for sleep and not recreation; the rec rooms aboard are extensive, and opportunities to relax elsewhere are certainly abundant. And besides, any crewman who spends too much time alone in his cabin soon gets a "visit" from our fearless (and fearsome) CMO. Cabins on the _Enterprise_ are joined by a shared lavatory containing a commode, tiny sink, and sanitizing stall; and while the ranking officers' cabins are certainly a sight larger they are still required by ship's design to share a lavatory between two cabins. Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock's are no different, though I wondered as I exited the lift on Deck Five how awkward it might be to share a loo with a species so private.

No doubt Mr. Spock had some sort of _logical_ timetable worked out for the two of them.

There was no answer when I buzzed Mr. Spock's cabin, and so I moved next door to the captain's, which actually opened at my approach rather than remaining locked. I made a note to pass that information on to Scotty, who would probably raise seven kinds of hell about the lack of security, and poked my head into the cabin.

"Captain Kirk, sir?" I called, not seeing anyone in the small office area. "Maintenance to repair your lavatory ductwork?"

There was no answer, and that explained the unlocked door; Kirk had probably stepped out for a minute and had left it unlocked, having been alerted by SS&R that a technician was on the way to make repairs. It felt a bit odd to be wandering blithely into the captain's private cabin, but no one could blame me for doing my job, and so I scuttled as hastily as I could across the cabin and into the small shared lavatory, feeling rather like a child sneaking into his parents' bedroom and trying not to peek at anything private.

The lights in the lavatory of course registered my presence, flicking on silently with a harsh yellow glow, and the door slid shut behind me without noise as I placed my tool kit on the floor. Thankfully, at least those two systems appeared in perfect working order; a good thing, as my wiring skills were average at best, shock-inducing at worst. Riley still laughs about the repair work I tried to do on an Environmental Control motherboard during training, and the snowstorm that resulted in the Engineering test cubicle (hence my placement into Maintenance).

I suppose it was a bit inexcusably nosy, but given the opportunity, who wouldn't be a bit eager to learn what they could about their two commanding officers by what they kept on their shared countertop?

To my surprise, and private amusement, there was no chalk line down the countertop with **My Side** written in Vulcan on it, and yet the division was quite clear; Spock's side obviously held only a toothbrush and a comb, both in protective sanitization holders, and a small to-do-list tacked onto the corner of the mirror; while the captain's side of the sink was chaotically covered in a jumble of hair products, eye drops, a pill bottle (obviously a headache remedy, judging from what little I could read of McCoy's atrocious handwriting), and - to my surprise - an actual, honest-to-God _paperback_ edition of a Zane Grey novel, with some sort of fuzzy green bookmark that said **Reading Is Fun!** peeking out of the pages halfway through.

Right, and that was probably more weirdness than I really needed to know. Hopefully their plumbing would not be near as informative.

It took a good quarter-hour of tinkering, taking apart pipes, and general guesswork to discover the leak in the ductwork, one which was caused by a faulty hydraulic coupling that had shrunk in the process of time warp - of course, a coupling in a size which was not standard and so was not in my toolkit. Such is the story of my life.

Venting a frustrated sigh, I scrambled out from under the small sink and wiped my hands on my jumpsuit before turning to leave the lavatory, intent upon comm-ing SS&R to have Kalov send someone up with a No. 7 coupling -

- and walked out of the lav straight into the business end of a phaser.

Training instincts are a bit ingrained by the time any cadet goes into space, and so it was not quick thinking but rather just plain self-preservation that sent me crashing down into the fellow's knees in a short roll designed to throw his aim off while still putting me out of the line of fire. A brief scuffle, in which I got an elbow to the head and a vicious knee to places best left better protected - not a standard fighting technique, and a bit dirty, I thought indignantly above the unmanful shriek that threatened to break past my lips - and then somehow my arm got twisted up behind my back and a knee planted itself across my lower legs, effectively pinning me in less than ten seconds.

A shameful representation of my less-than-stellar defensive skills, unfortunately, and yet again indication as to why I didn't make high enough placement scores to go into Security on the _Enterprise_.

To make matters worse, the flood of adrenaline then faded to let me see none other than First Officer Spock standing across from me. His left eyebrow dutifully followed the right into his hairline as I gawped at him, squinting through my own fringe in an effort to make sense of the last few seconds.

Spock sighed through his nose, which made me want to giggle for some reason because it looked for all the world like a harried mum trying to not swat her kid upside the head for something, and then he looked pointedly my direction.

"Captain, I believe Mr. Turner will require the use of his arm during his duties aboard," Spock said dryly, and immediately everything just got ten times worse.

I heard a sheepish "Whoops…" from behind me, and immediately the weight pinning me scrambled away, revealing none other than Captain Kirk himself, grinning guiltily at me and offering me a hand up.

Oh, lovely. I'd not only been beaten in less than ten seconds by an assailant (a lack of skill which had cost me a placement and might someday cost me my life), but by one weighing a good stone and a half less than I.

Fantastic.

"Sorry, Turner," Kirk was saying, somewhat red-faced, as I reluctantly accepted the hand and was hauled briskly to my feet. "Instinct, you know."

"I do, sir," I replied ruefully, trying to surreptitiously rearrange my jumpsuit to relieve pressure on the more painful portions of my anatomy.

"Are you in need of medical attention, Ensign?"

Better and better, now I was being babied by the resident Vulcan. "Negative, Mr. Spock," I replied with as much crispness as I could muster. "My apologies, captain; I was sent to repair the ductwork in your lavatory…?"

To my surprise, Kirk blushed, I suppose in embarrassment for over-reacting, reasonable though the assumption had been. "Of course, Ensign. I had stepped out for a moment and forgot to lock the door; then, hearing someone inside when I returned, and knowing it wasn't Mr. Spock…"

"Aye, sir," I answered dryly, rubbing the side of my head. How a man that compact can have such a bony elbow is beyond my ken. "I must say Lieutenant Kalov neglected to inform me that plumbing repair would entitle me to hazard pay, Captain."

Kirk laughed, eyes sparkling with a good humor that made my initial irritation melt away despite the desire to hold a grudge. I'd heard people speak of the captain's innate charm, but had never been subject to it myself until now. But who really can be irritated with a man who can truly laugh at himself, and obviously take care of himself even without his Vulcan shadow?

To my surprise, the captain extended a hand to me, which I shook hesitantly after a moment's clueless hesitation. "I apologize, Ensign, for my hasty assumptions," Kirk said simply, all the more shocking for its readily-given sincerity. It's the first rule in the command track curriculum: never admit to your subordinates that you're wrong, and never apologize for your actions or decisions.

Obviously, vetoing the saluting in the corridors wasn't the only rule James T. Kirk was planning on breaking during his tenure aboard.

"Erm." I coughed awkwardly, and nodded. "No worries, Captain."

"I must say I approve of your excellent reflexes, Turner," Kirk continued in a more relaxed tone, as he retrieved his data-padds from Spock's patient hands. "Just remember that any attacker isn't going to stick to your personal sense of ethics when it comes to 'honorable' fighting, and you'll be just fine in a scuffle."

I stopped with my hand on the comm, staring at him in surprise. "Sir?"

"Ensign, I've reviewed the placement scores for everyone who applied for the _Enterprise_," Kirk said, seating himself at his desk and silently waving his First to the chair opposite. "Yours were considerably less stellar than Mr. Scott seems to think you are capable of being."

Well, that was news to me. Every instructor I'd ever had had _recommended_ I focus on the Ops track since I had no particular aptitude for any specific skill.

Kirk tapped a stylus pointedly on the edge of the padd, looking at me over Spock's head. "I expect you to realize your full potential while aboard this vessel, Mr. Turner," he said firmly. "Mediocrity will get you killed on the _Enterprise_, and you have the potential to be as much as you wish to be. See that you realize that potential. I can safely promise you that there's more to life out here than unstopping toilets for the next four and a half years, Ensign."

I grinned, feeling a ray of hope for the first time that here was a commander who actually knew his people as more than numbers and pulled strings from old friends.

I might just have a chance on this ship. Who knew.

* * *

(1) According to the episode _The Naked Time_, they did end up closing off sections of the ship in an effort to stop the spread of the virus.


	3. Chapter 3

******Title**: Strategies  
**Series**: Tales from the Lower Decks  
**Written for**: **st_20_fics** Table, **Prompt #3 - "Checkmate."**  
**Characters**: Spock, Kirk, OC Matthew Turner (seen elsewhere such as_ A Celebration in Infinite Combinations _and _Insontis_)  
**Warnings/Spoilers:** written by me? :P  
**Series Summary**: The adventures of an ordinary Maintenance man aboard the _Enterprise_, and his observations of the developing trifold powerhouse which is Kirk, Spock, and McCoy.  
**This Bit** **Summary: **Ensign Turner sits in on a staff meeting, and realizes that even the Federation's prize command chain do not have infinite attention spans.  
**This Bit Word Count**: 3462  
**A/N**: Having abandoned my NaNo temporarily because it had ground to a very painful, very boring halt (and I only do NaNo because I enjoy writing; once I start hating a fic I know it's time to give it a break and plan a little better the second time around), I am beginning this series of ficlets/oneshots for **st_20_fics**, with the prompt table linked above. They will all be Triumvirate-centric, more so than these introductory ones, so just bear with me while I establish an OC POV and let some initial time pass before moving on to the better ones. I'm just fooling around and having fun here, people, so expect anything from crack to angst and all the universes in-between.

* * *

**Prompt #3 - Checkmate**

I adore Lieutenant-Commander Montgomery Scott, make no mistake. Sometimes I get a bit annoyed with many of the crew, especially Science and Medical, who seem to forget he has the same Starfleet ranking as Mr. Spock and Doctor McCoy (1); but Scotty's so easy-going (except when you touch his precioussssss) and well-liked by everyone that that familiarity breeds contempt among many. The man's a genius, in and out of his field, and I've seldom seen a commander who could take the sort of pressure he does on a daily basis and not crack under the stress.

His expertise and ingenuity have saved lives more times than we could count during this five-year mission, and I know the captain relies on his engineering magic just as much as Mr. Spock's figures in a crisis. In the early months of our mission, Scott went down with Altarian flu one week for around five days, and the ship practically fell apart without him to sweet-talk her every night; and heaven help the day he's on the Bridge during a crisis and not deep in the guts of the ship where, direct quote, he _belongs, thank ye very much_.

Scotty could easily promote to First aboard another ship and then Captain in less than ten years, there's no question; but I don't think he really wants to. He's the type of fellow who would rather take a paycut and continue to do what he loves, than get the best promotion in the world and never be happy with what he's forced to do. The captain's the same way, I think - some people are just born for certain jobs, and both of those men were born for theirs and nothing but theirs. Anything else just seems universally wrong, somehow.

All that to say, I deeply respect the man, I really do.

However, he's without question the most boring speaker in the galaxy.

I say that with all the respect his brilliance deserves. But Scotty can't lecture the common folk to save his life, and it's the one detracting quality in an otherwise sterling personality. His Engineering people, hand-picked and some of them fought over against Mr. Spock himself come crew rotation, understand him perfectly; and Engineering runs like a well-oiled doomsday machine. But slap Scotty into any other context and give him a set of reports to condense and make clear to any other set of personnel, and eyes start glazing over before he's halfway through the first page.

I've noticed the phenomenon many times, but the first time was about eleven months into our first year, the first time I was ever present for an official briefing with the command staff. There's rarely a reason for anyone except the chain of command to ever be present at such briefings, unless the crewman has some sort of specialized knowledge that might be of use, but at this particular meeting Scott required a set of extra hands to run the projector he was using during his monthly departmental report.

The projector was non-affectionately termed among Maintenance, _The Dinosaur_, mainly because it was a ridiculous-number-of-years-old Ancient Terran model, and apparently Scott had a sentimental attachment to the blasted thing and refused to let it be scrapped and just ask SS&R for a new one. The blasted thing was crankier than a wet cat in January, and very few of us had the patience to tinker with it until we could coax it to work. I happened to be one of those people; apparently my lot in life being to have all sorts of skills that are of no practical use in the major arenas of Starfleet.

But I digress. No one wanted to wrestle with Dinosaur, and so I volunteered to accompany Mr. Scott to the monthly department head meeting, where problems and issues and ideas were thrown out and bounced off the talented command chain we're so fortunate to have. Reportedly, these meetings had sometimes taken as long as seven hours.

And, after an hour and a half of listening to Mr. Spock and Dr. McCoy bicker about having to share the equipment in Science Lab Eleven and being shorted three dozen petrie dishes in Experimental Medical Research, I could understand _why_.

I could also understand why Captain Kirk had a bottle of headache medicine in easy reach on his lavatory counter. The poor man was already rubbing the bridge of his nose as the noise escalated, and drinking far more coffee than I had always been told was healthy. By the time Scott got up two hours later, the last of the bunch, to give the report for Ops, Tactical, and Engineering, the captain was listing slightly to one side, head on one hand and squinting against the lights.

Dr. McCoy appeared to be ignoring everyone else in favor of doing paperwork, while Lieutenant Sulu was intently working on what looked suspiciously from my angle to be a speed-Sudoku puzzle. Lieutenant Uhura, I noted curiously, was the only one giving Scotty her full attention - and rather…shall we say, _all-encompassing_, that attention was. (2)

As our Mr. Spock would say, fascinating.

I fired up the projector, re-connecting a few loose wires as Scott introduced his report, eager to show his captain the improvement we'd made recently in those departments' efficiency. I saw the captain firmly pull his attention back to the present, straightening up and giving his CE an encouraging nod, before I turned my attention back to Dinosaur. She was rudely spitting sparks at me, which I waved away before giving her a firm thump to the outer casing near the relay circuits.

Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock half-turned to stare at me, and I shrugged, gesturing toward the picture which had successfully flickered into life on the opposite wall.

Mr. Spock's eyebrow was unconsciously mirrored on his left by his captain, and I hid a smirk in my sleeve - I'd never noticed which of them had picked up the habit from the other.

"To begin with, gentlemen," Scott announced, using a laser pointer to indicate the stats at the bottom of the graph, "Tactical has been working t'improve manual reaction time to fire phaser and torpedo relays. During recent battle simulations, courtesy of the Programming department, we identified four key factors in improving that reaction time, wi' a goal of 3% increase, start to finish."

By this point, Dr. McCoy was yawning, and Captain Kirk was obviously endeavoring not to do the same.

"First of all - laddie, kin ye see to tha'?" I sighed and scooted beneath the Dinosaur to see why the graph had just decided to play itself upside down. "First of all, gentlemen - an' Ms. Uhura - I dinna believe our cadets are receivin' the proper amount of training for manual controls." Ah, there it was - a loose wire in the visual relay circuitry. I tightened the screws holding the bypass wires and then looked up, seeing that the visual had righted itself.

"Of the two dozen lads I tested," Scott was continuing, "only fourteen of them had an Acceptable efficiency rating in manual controls. All others, Cap'n, were slightly Below Acceptable, and there were none reaching an Exceeds Expectations rating."

At this, Kirk's head lifted, and he exchanged a look with his First. "That's much too low a rating," he mused, frowning. "And it's probably what cost us lives down there during that skirmish with the Romulans."

"Indeed, Captain," Spock confirmed, exchanging a glance with Scott.

"Mr. Spock suggested as much to me, sir, after we lost poor Tomlinson," Scotty said quietly. I looked down for a moment, because you don't just get over the pain of losing a good friend like that in a matter of eight weeks. "'Twas his suggestion we see if everyone was competent under manual control conditions, and we dinna believe everyone is. Steps are bein' taken to rectify this at once, sir, involving nightly training sessions in a two-hour rotation."

"Excellent work, both of you," Kirk murmured, scribbling a note on his padd. "Proceed, Scotty."

Scott beamed at the commendation, because to be honest he rarely gets the thanks he deserves for what he does, and thus buoyed by the praise he did indeed proceed - for over an hour, and that was just for Tactical. By that point, even Mr. Spock appeared to be sporadically working on something on his padd, typing a word or two occasionally and then returning his attention to Scotty's report. Captain Kirk had apparently decided that writing notes would keep him from falling asleep, as Sulu was currently doing, and was also typing, looking up occasionally to let Scott know he was still listening.

Bless him, Scotty didn't appear to notice, just nattered on and on and on - and on, and on, and on, until even I was hoping Dinosaur would blow a fuse and set my trousers afire just so that I had an excuse to leave. But then I noticed something a bit odd.

The captain and Mr. Spock were, indeed, typing a bit and then looking back up, at fairly regular intervals.

However, they never did so in sync; it was as if when one looked up, the other looked down, and vice-versa.

This sounds like a load of malarkey to most, probably, but when you've lived aboard this ship for long, anytime you see KirkenSpock doing _anything_ out of sync, it's something to take note of for the novelty alone.

Besides, I plead not having lunch, and being forced to listen to our superiors air their grievances against Command and each other and any unfortunate bystander for the past five hours.

It was none of my business what the COs do during their own staff meetings, however, and I knew better than to even speculate. Knowing that it would be a good twenty minutes before Scotty needed his next slide, I then hacked into the briefing room's wireless intranet signal and pulled up the ship's local chat room, idly wondering if anyone I knew was as bored as I at the moment and wanted to talk.

I stared down at the padd in amusement, but no real surprise, to find that apparently the captain and Mr. Spock were the only ones in the chat room doing anything except lurking, snarking back and forth at each other, and apparently oblivious to the other random names who weren't chatting but just present.

Right smack in the middle of a department head meeting.

I hastily logged out and then back in as my alternate name, before I showed up as _TurnerMatt_ on their screens. They didn't appear to have a problem with the two other crewmen who were I suppose lurking about the chat room, but I still hoped they had no idea who _GalacticHoover_ was. And if they didn't - I had the same blackmail on them that they'd have on me, so... (2)

[KirkJ] Bishop to Queen's Level One.

[Spock] Pawn takes bishop.

They were seriously playing Tri-D chess during a departmental staff meeting.

In their _heads_.

Was everyone on this ship brilliant except for me?

[KirkJ] Knight takes pawn.

[Spock] Queen to King's Level Two. Mate in six.

[KirkJ] I officially hate you.

[Spock] That is not a valid move, sir.

I stifled a snicker, and only just realized Scott was about to call for his next diagram, this time for Engineering. Hastily I flicked the schematics up onto the wall, and watched to make sure Dinosaur decided to behave herself, before glancing back down at the padd.

[Spock] Stalling will gain you no new alternatives.

[KirkJ] Stalling will enable me to wrap my head around what Scotty's saying about the improvements to the warp engines. I may have minored in Engineering at the Academy, but not all of us have eidetic recall.

[Spock] Apparently, sir, nor do all of us have the ability to successfully strategize.

This time it wasn't me who snorted, but when I looked incredulously over at Dr. McCoy he was only fiercely scrawling his signature across what were probably medical requisitions, occasionally grumbling to himself under his breath.

[KirkJ] How about…Rook to King's Level Five.

[Spock is typing]

[Spock is typing]

[KirkJ] Had you convinced I was giving up, didn't I? ;)

[Spock] You are a most unusual human.

[KirkJ] Why thank you, Mr. Spock.

[KirkJ] I do believe someone was saying something about stalling, Commander.

[Spock] I am not stalling, Captain.

[KirkJ] Suuuure. What are you doing, then?

[Spock] Waiting for you to acknowledge that Mr. Scott just asked you a question, sir.

I heard a sort of startled yelp and looked up to see Scotty staring at his captain a bit strangely.

"My apologies, Mr. Scott…would you repeat that for me? I didn't quite catch all of the details," Kirk asked blandly, looking intently at his Chief Engineer as if he had no other thought in the world but what Scotty was telling him.

Scott looked suspiciously between his two COs, but backtracked to repeat his statistics regarding fuel output and plasma ventilation, a reduction of which that would save us much time, manpower, and energy during the remainder of our mission. It was really a laudable accomplishment, and I hoped that despite their inattention Kirk and Spock were actually listening to the hugeness of Scotty's plans.

I shouldn't have worried. Kirk apparently was able to multitask, and was able to readily rattle off a string of questions of his own back at his Chief Engineer, who then launched into an excited explanation of how the reduction would enable us to turn that energy elsewhere within the ship, possibly to requisition, thereby expanding our possible requisition orders.

When Kirk had paid strict attention to Scotty for a good five or ten minutes, he glanced surreptitiously back down to the datapadd in front of him. Sneaking a peek at Scott to make sure he was paying me no mind, I followed suit.

[Spock] King to King's Level Seven.

[KirkJ] Rook to King's Level Five.

[Spock] Knight takes Rook.

[KirkJ] King to King's Level Six.

[Spock] A retreat, Captain?

[KirkJ] A tactical strategy, Mr. Spock.

[Spock] Indeed?

[KirkJ] How is it that you can convey sarcasm through an impersonal chat box, Mr. Spock?

By this point, Scotty was giving his superiors the Evil Eye, clearly suspecting they were not paying as much attention as they appeared to be - and as much as the poor guy rightfully deserved, boring though his lecture skills might be. I tried to look as innocent as possible, fiddling studiously with Dinosaur's controls, as he shot me a pointed look and told me to put the next slide up, a schematic of Engineering's console placement and the power couplings behind each.

"If ye've no further questions, Cap'n?"

Kirk just smiled innocently and motioned for him to continue. Scotty then launched into a detailed explanation of power fluctuations and controlled output methods that was a load of utter nonsense to anyone with even remedial Engineering expertise, all the while warning me with a glare not to let on that it was so much rubbish. He went on for a good sixty seconds like that, eyes continually narrowing on Mr. Spock and the captain's oblivious heads, and I felt it prudent (and only fair) to at least fire a warning shot across their bow before the torpedoes started detonating.

[GalacticHoover has entered the conversation]

[GalacticHoover] Not to interrupt, Captain, but Mr. Scott just rattled off a paragraph's worth of total rubbish, to which you just nodded and told him he was brilliant. I think he's on to you, sir.

"Wait, what?" Kirk's hasty exclamation came a bit too late to sound genuine, and Scotty just folded his arms, glaring at his captain and tsk-ing in the back of his throat.

"Sir, dare I assume ye've not been quite listenin' to my reports, an' dragging your Vulcan along for the ride? Hmm?"

"Well, Scotty, you see - um." The captain cleared his throat uneasily, casting a glance at Spock, who only looked more bored than before, if possible, and clearly not about to so much as lend his captain a shovel with which to dig his way out of the hole he'd made. "It's like this -"

"Way to go, kid," McCoy drawled from across the table, sarcastically toasting me with his coffee cup. "That was gonna be the most entertainment I've seen today, and y'had to go and spoil it."

I blinked, staring down at the remaining names in the chat room. Right, and so apparently _GAonmyMind_ was Dr. McCoy's alternate login name, since it was the only one left lurking online, silently stalking the chat room.

McCoy's ill-timed testiness only served to turn Scott's attention onto me, and I expected to be thrown under the spacehopper for warning the captain of the impending Unstoppable Storm in the person of a rather cheesed off Chief Engineer.

Fortunately for all of us, the lady of the hour chose that exact moment to begin smoking alarmingly, shooting sparks out the back of the projector as she apparently decided to eat Scotty's last slide as a mid-afternoon snack. The combination of smoke and bits of flaming celluloid forced me to scramble back from the old girl, upending my chair in the process and successfully derailing the conversation.

Unfortunately, the smoke also activated the ship's internal sprinkler system, drenching all of us within a matter of seconds.

"Perhaps you would be better served to send a memorandum to us all, Mr. Scott," Captain Kirk said sheepishly after the chorus of shrieks and startled yelps had subsided and the room's heating and dehumidifying vents had kicked in. He cast a rueful look at Dinosaur, and then flicked an amused glance up at me. "You've trained your equipment - and its handlers - well, if that's any consolation, Scotty."

Lieutenant Uhura gave every male in the room except Scotty a scathing look and stalked out with a swish of damp skirt, looking far too fierce even dripping wet for anyone to think of saying anything to her.

"Dismissed," Kirk muttered redundantly, slumping in his chair rather like a forlorn child.

Lieutenant Sulu lost no time in scooting out of the briefing room, obviously of the opinion that a little damp was certainly an equitable trade for being cut loose early from a staff meeting, while McCoy paused long enough to say something in an undertone to Scott that effectually calmed him down quite a bit, even getting a wry grin before the doctor slapped him briefly on the shoulder and left.

Mr. Spock, bless his heart, apparently was taking Vulcan loyalty to the bitter extreme, because he looked rather like a wet cat, pathetically cold and miserable, but refused to leave his captain to the mercy of Scott's righteous indignation.

"Mr. Scott, I'm sorry," Kirk finally said, with evident sincerity. "I won't even bother trying to come up with an excuse. If I come down to Engineering after beta shift tonight, will you show me what you were working on?"

One of the best things about Scotty is that he does know better than anyone else when to laugh at himself, and he can't hold a grudge to save his life. "Oh, aye, sir," he answered, grinning through a wet fringe at the captain's sheepish expression. "Ah know I kin get a bit carried away, sir. Showin' is easier than tellin', isn't it."

"Much," was the emphatic agreement. "Your expertise is far more appreciated than we let on sometimes, Scotty."

"I' had better be," Scott retorted sagely, wringing water out of his tunic. "Oh, just leave the old girl, Mr. Turner - she'll have t'be completely overhauled after gettin' a drenching like that."

I backed away with grateful alacrity from the cranky old thing's suspicious rattling, and followed my superior out the sliding door.

Behind me, chairs rattled as the captain and Mr. Spock stood and prepared to leave, their voices carrying through the opening.

"Checkmate, by the way, Captain."

"Oh, shut _up_, Spock."

* * *

(1) At the beginning of the series, Spock had not yet been promoted to the rank of full Commander; you can see by the braid on his uniform sleeves, that at some point in the series he eventually was granted that full rank. However, at this point in time, he's still a Lieutenant-Commander just like McCoy and Scotty.

(2) Scotty/Uhura is actually canon, according to ST:V (though admittedly there's little in the actual series itself to support that), and it's the only pairing I usually even nod at.

(3) Remember that Turner is British by nationality, and a _hoover_ is the Britishism for a vacuum cleaner. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: Of Human Friends  
**Series**: Tales from the Lower Decks  
**Written for**: **st_20_fics** Table, **Prompt #015 - "Who's going to believe that?"**  
**Characters**: Spock, Kirk, OC Matthew Turner (seen elsewhere such as_ A Celebration in Infinite Combinations _and _Insontis_)  
**Warnings/Spoilers:** written by me? :P  
**Series Summary**: The adventures of an ordinary Maintenance man aboard the _Enterprise_, and his observations of the developing trifold powerhouse which is Kirk, Spock, and McCoy.  
**This Bit** **Summary: **Captain Kirk attracts trouble everywhere he goes, even during routine maintenance inspections. Ensign Turner learns that Mr. Spock is, shall we say, less than tolerant of freak accidents.  
**This Bit Word Count**: 2329  
**A/N**: Having abandoned my NaNo temporarily because it had ground to a very painful, very boring halt (and I only do NaNo because I enjoy writing; once I start hating a fic I know it's time to give it a break and plan a little better the second time around), I am beginning this series of ficlets/oneshots for **st_20_fics**, with the prompt table linked above. They will all be Triumvirate-centric, more so than these introductory ones, so just bear with me while I establish an OC POV and let some initial time pass before moving on to the better ones. I'm just fooling around and having fun here, people, so expect anything from crack to angst and all the universes in-between.

* * *

There's one thing in all the galaxy that's the nightmare to end all nightmares for any crewman worth his uniform insignia, and that's to be busy trying to avert a crisis yourself (or worse, have no warning at all), only to hear over an open intra-comm that _the captain's down_.

Shipside or planetside, makes no difference; when the Bridge or Landing Party crew's too frantic to remember to close the channel to anyone but Security and Medical, then you know it's bad. Usually the captain is supposed to be invincible to his crew; and Captain Kirk's the worst of that lot's old-school thinking that I've ever encountered. The man could be half-delirious with a fever and still pull off his Bridge duties well enough to fool anyone except Mr. Spock - in fact, he did, that time he came down with Vegan choriomeningitis; no one knew a thing about it until the captain just keeled over in Officers' Mess one day. But that invincible front disappears when emergency channels are activated by crewmen who are more scared than careful to preserve captainal dignity, and that's the worst possible feeling for any crewman trapped in the middle of an already bad situation.

The stupid thing is that the incident in question was a fairly routine accident. No renegade Romulans attacking us under heavy cloak, no intruders beaming up covertly with shore leave parties, no surprise drops out of warp into highly magnetic asteroid belts, no ambitious pirates to contend with - nothing of the kind, and nothing that should have been hazardous. Just a simple, deadly malfunction of circuitry and equipment during a routine inspection, that resulted in the captain being trapped with one of the Engineering crew in a little-used Jefferies tube with an electrical fire blocking his only exit.

Our fabulous and ferocious Dr. McCoy (who, thanks be to whatever lucky star follows this ship around, had been seeing to a minor burn in nearby Recycling and Processing when the alarms sounded) broke at least three laws of physics getting to the scene when Scotty's panicked call shook the ship, frantically hollering to both Medical and Maintenance about malfunctioning fire suppressant systems on Deck Fifteen. Scott's comm produced a massive wave of panic, understandably, but was effective enough in getting immediate response from all of us within two decks' earshot.

I'd like to say we'd have been just as quick to respond if poor Ensign Thomas had been the only one trapped, but there's that added little spark of extra panic that lends super-speed to situations where the captain's in danger. Kirk hates it, says he's no more important than the lowest member of his crew (and it gives poor Giotto _fits_ when the captain has no more regard for his life than that), but it's fact that the captain's the most valuable crewman and therefore gets the highest security protection.

It's also fact that Captain Kirk would just as soon boot anyone out an airlock who voices that opinion out loud, and that's just part of the man's charm.

From where I crouched at an access panel with Marta from Security, both of us at this point trying to torch a section out of the wall so that we could get the captain out, I could hear Scotty's thick burr swearing at the malfunctioning suppressant system, growing increasingly wild over the sinister noise of flames crackling and snapping, fueled by what was probably a coolant leak pooling in the only exit from that particular disused Jefferies tube.

From what I could hear, the captain and Ensign Thomas seemed calm enough – calmer than I'd be at the prospect of being burned alive in my own ship due to a freak accident, definitely – but Scott was anything but, and the arrival of a smallish cyclone in the person of an equally frantic Chief Medical Officer only fueled that fire, if you'll pardon the pun. Dr. McCoy was already coughing amid the roiling smoke because the idiot hadn't stopped long enough to pick up an oxygen-flow mask like the rest of us (security procedures were rigorously drilled into our heads, captain at risk or no captain at risk), and I was relieved to see Lieutenant Masters slap one on his face with a glare of admonition that the man of course ignored totally, too busy gesticulating furiously over the noise of the fire and alarm systems.

A shower of sparks indicated we'd cut through the wiring of the access panel properly, and we started in on torching the durasteel beyond – at its thinnest due to the wiring in the access panel, and probably the captain and Thomas's only hope of scrambling out of the small oven they were sitting in at that moment.

"If we don't get through this in sixty seconds, Scotty's going to have to decompress the corridor to kill the oxygen flow," Marta murmured, slightly muffled through the protective mask. Her flaming auburn hair was hastily knotted back from the heat of the torch as she stubbornly rammed it home, the stream of compressed super-ionic lasers sparking dangerously against solid metal.

"He's going to have somebody's head for not noticing a coolant leak, and gods help whoever was responsible for replacing that corroded fire suppressant foam and ventilation system," I agreed, beginning to worry a bit for the first time, as I saw that we'd made very little headway in the industrial-strength durasteel.

A series of small thuds from within the wall told me that one of the trapped men was still alive and conscious, at least, and most likely exploring the tiny prison again for an avenue of escape.

"Who designs Jefferies tubes without two exits, anyway?" Marta snarled, ramming the torch into the small dent we'd made in the steel.

"That's why Scott ordered this one disused, because it doesn't really have a function other than wiring ports, and he regarded it as a safety hazard," I answered tersely, looking back over my shoulder. We'd very few portable fire suppressant units on non-essential decks, because the Enterprise's built-in systems were top of the line and supposed to be able to care for any such emergency without even needing computer coding to engage. That meant this freak accident couldn't have happened at a worse location.

Finally, through the haze of electrical smoke, I saw that a trio of engineering personnel, properly masked, had managed to haul down one of the huge fire suppressant hoses from the access junction four corridors over. How they managed that, I'd no idea, because the thing weighed a fair ton, but thank heavens they did manage it, because the odds were very much more in favor of their success than in mine and Marta's.

Scotty was yelling into a communicator now. "Masters, get that override done, now!" he bellowed, as the Engineers shoved past them with the hose. "I dinna care if ye have to reprogram the entire suppressant system and shut down th' engines t'do it, but divert that power to the hoses in Corridor Seven! Turner, Marta!" We both glanced up, and shut off the torches at the CE's gesturing, relieved that the burden of saving the captain's life no longer lay solely in our fairly hopeless hands.

The fire suppressant hose suddenly jerked into life, spraying bits of creamy foam in every direction - and not a minute too soon; Dr. McCoy looked about five seconds from just wrapping himself in a blanket and playing the idiot superhero. He'd have probably gotten both himself and the captain killed, and that would've left the rest of us poor fools to deal with Mr. Spock afterwards. It's enough to give a fellow night terrors.

A fair bit of teamwork and far too much suppressant foam eventually killed the blaze, while coating the corridor in sticky yellowish goop for fifty meters in every direction. All of us were coated with the stuff, thanks to the widespread beam from the oversized hoses, and I did feel a sight awful for Maintenance, who were going to have to clean up the mess. Dr. McCoy looked a bit like a festering snowman, covered in a thick glop of sickly foam from the waist down (he'd shielded his face when the spattering started), and poor Scotty! Our gallant chief had had full exposure to the stuff and eventually had to be nearly chiseled out of its hardened state, refusing to be seen to until the captain and Thomas were safely on their way to Sickbay.

Thomas was unconscious from smoke inhalation when we dragged him out of the Jefferies tube but otherwise fairly unscathed. Kirk, on the other hand, had taken the full brunt of the fire, obviously having shoved his subordinate behind him and thereby protecting him from the blaze itself. Our (I say this with the utmost fondness and respect) idiot captain's tunic had evidently caught fire at one point, and when McCoy hauled him out of the Jefferies tube he was sporting pretty nasty second-degree burns in addition to the smoke inhalation. Thus they both were in bad shape by the time our CMO had stopped ranting about _godforsaken unnatural flyin' tin cans with faulty circuitry an' idiots runnin' 'em_ and got down to business with that gentle ferocity that never ceases to amaze me.

I was the one who finally saw that Scotty was beginning to wheeze a bit from being coated liberally in fire-suppressant foam, not to mention the fact that the stuff was hardening quicker than usual in the severe heat of the corridor, and all but carted the fellow off to Sickbay, protesting all the way that he needed to see to the faulty circuitry diagnostics himself. After being sworn at in at least three languages by our lovable Chief Engineer, none of which were Federation Standard, I finally turned him over to Nurse Anya's capable hands and was able to breathe a sigh of sheer relief.

Annnnnnd then Commander Spock walked in.

Nurse Chapel's really the only one who can get through to him when he looks like that – usually after the captain's gone and done something really stupid like getting himself thrown off a cliff on an away mission or refusing to tell Sickbay he's not feeling well until he passes out in a turbolift – but unfortunately, she was assisting McCoy at the moment to make poor Thomas's respiratory tract not have to work so hard at its job (Captain Kirk had already been treated, sedated, and dumped in his personal recovery cubicle; yes, the man had his _own_ by now at this point in the mission, Scotty had personally engraved his name on the end of the bio-bed).

And I wasn't quite quick enough. I tell you, you've never felt like you're in Very Big Trouble until you've been skewered by a Vulcan bent on perfectly logical verbal evisceration.

Eight long, loooooong minutes of praying that someone – anyone – would come and rescue me from a not-worried-because-that-is-an-emotion-I-always-look-like-I'm-going-to-dismember-you-slowly Vulcan, and finally McCoy registered our First Officer's presence. Or else somehow heard my frantically projected SOS. Either way, he came bustling out of Thomas's room, scratching absently at the rough emergency scrubs he'd hastily changed into upon reaching Sickbay.

"Spock, leave the kid alone," he scolded immediately, seeing and hearing my stuttering report of what Scotty intended to do about the freak accident. "It's nobody's fault because nobody's perfect. Accidents happen."

"Doctor, this ship is considered high-risk as the matter stands," was the icy response, delivered through a glare that could strip tritanium alloy. Clearly, Vulcans _were_ perfect and expected lesser species to be so as well. "Accidents must not be permitted to increase those already dangerous odds aboard this vessel."

"And they won't again, I'm sure," McCoy sighed, giving me a not-so-gentle push in the direction of the doors. He completed the arc of motion by grabbing Spock's arm – actually grabbing the Commander's arm! Did he have a death wish? – and tugging him in the direction of the glass observation window which broke up the grey walls of Kirk's recovery room.

Miraculously, Spock didn't so much as flex his fingers toward the doctor's throat, so McCoy must have a bit of foolhardy bravery under that irritable exterior. The Commander only stepped forward in silent acquiescence, and peered into the room beyond with what his Science Labs jokingly call The Eyebrows of Doom.

"He's gonna be perfectly fine, so you can stop makin' yeomen cry in the corridors, Mr. Spock," McCoy drawled, grinning. (The doctor obviously has more guts than brains.)

"Doctor, _really_." Ouch, someone left his Vulcan sense of humor in his cabin this morning…

"Commander, _really_," the physician mocked, smirking. "Afraid you're gonna show a little human worry for your human _friend_, hmm? Who'd've believed it!"

"Fear and Worry are human emotions, Doctor," Spock said severely, in a tone that would make any lesser man afraid to so much as hint at his own humanity. "Please confine your dubious diagnostic skills to the captain's condition, as they obviously are at fault with categorizing a superior species."

McCoy casually scrutinized a small stain on the sleeve of his scrubs. "I notice you didn't deny the word _friend_," he remarked wickedly.

Spock looked rather dismally through the glass at the reclining figure of Captain Kirk. "I was not given much choice in the matter, Doctor," he said wryly. "I have been duly informed that one does not possess the option to be this particular human's _friend_; one is simply…appropriated, into that elite circle. With or without one's consent."

McCoy tried valiantly not to laugh, and only ended up grinning like a satisfied hound.

I, idiot that I am, was not so restrained, and so had to make a hasty exit before I discovered whether or not Mr. Spock's _friend_ would be able to keep him from forcing Maintenance to take apart every circuit board in the entire lower decks wire by wire to prevent another such freak accident.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title**: Discretion  
**Series**: Tales from the Lower Decks  
**Written for**: **st_20_fics** Table, **Prompt #01 - "Are you laughing at me?"**  
**Characters**: Spock, Kirk, OC Matthew Turner (seen elsewhere such as_ A Celebration in Infinite Combinations _and _Insontis_)  
**Warnings/Spoilers:** written by me? :P  
**Series Summary**: The adventures of an ordinary Maintenance man aboard the _Enterprise_, and his observations of the developing trifold powerhouse which is Kirk, Spock, and McCoy.  
**This Bit** **Summary: **During a nighttime ship's crisis, Ensign Turner discovers the story behind Spock's infamous furry green slippers.  
**This Bit Word Count**: 1336  
**A/N**: Just a tiny little Christmas gift to all my lovely readers - a happy holiday season to you, and my apologies for a lack of progress in my current WIPs. Now that the holidays are almost over, I hope to return to the writing scene (as soon as I can properly assimilate the amazing tragicness which was the Merlin finale). Spock's slippers originally appear in a couple other of my fics, so here's a nod to my personal continuity.

* * *

**Prompt #01 – "Are you laughing at me?"**

In my not-inexperienced opinion, the worst part of being aboard a starship is the not infrequent occasions in which dignity must be sacrificed for safety or duty.

Being hurled out of bed (literally) by explosions outside the hull on the ship's night in question was bad enough, but then to hear from a frantic Lieutenant DeSalle, the gamma shift duty officer, on my way to the turbolift that an unidentified ship with intense firepower had just opened fire on us out of nowhere – now that put a whole new level of alarm on an already bad situation. By the time the lift was taking me to the Bridge, I was already in verbal conference with Lieutenant Masters regarding malfunctions all over the ship, one of which was the Engineering console's life support motherboard. That was the reason for my being summoned to the Bridge for repairs rather than Engineering; I simply happened to be closer to the Bridge than to the Engineering and Maintenance decks.

And to compound an already rubbish situation, I'd only just realized with dismay that my uniform tunic was on inside-out when the lift began to slow, preparing to stop at Deck Five – the command crew quarters. Mr. Spock was going to have my head for being out of uniform, and I mentally resigned myself to a diatribe regarding dress code, the primary premise of which being that it would take just as much effort to put the tunic on right-side out instead of inside-out, and it was illogical to make such a plebian error, you lot of humans are most illogically inept, etc., etc. The fellow is a stickler for regulation, and while uniforms are of course secondary to safety in a ship's crisis, I was still resigned to hearing about yet another elementary error I'd unwittingly made in my hapless – hopeless? - career.

As it turned out, however, I shouldn't have worried.

The captain of the _Enterprise_ is a man secure enough in his own command image (and obviously, at this time worried enough for his beloved ship, whose warp engines were apparently nonfunctional if poor Scotty's frantic reports were any indication) to not give his own lack of proper dress code another thought. Judging from his mussed hair and dark-circled eyes as he stumbled into the lift, he had simply thrown on his Starfleet-issue bathrobe over his pajamas, and stomped into his boots on the way out the door. I was much amused to hear him distinctly curse the day he entered Starfleet in expressive colloquial Klingon, before he blearily registered my presence and immediately censured himself, straightening to attention with a look that hovered somewhere between alert and being utter rubbish at faking it.

"Mr. Turner."

"Captain. On my way to the Bridge to repair circuitry in the Engineering console," I explained, more to stall for time than anything else, because he looked for all the world like he really couldn't care less until he'd had a large coffee.

"Sir," a patient voice spoke from behind him, and I again wondered if Vulcans ever sleep, because Spock sounded for all the world like he'd just meandered calmly in from a little stroll in the arboretum.

"Sorry," Kirk said loudly over the red alert klaxon that began wailing again just then, and scooted out of the way to let his First into the lift as well. I edged backward as far as I could in the small space, thoroughly uncomfortable with sharing close quarters with two of the high command chain, and did my utmost to make myself invisible for the next two minutes.

Scrubbing a hand roughly through some fabulously chaotic hair (Mr. Spock in contrast looked immaculate as ever, from what I could see), Captain Kirk yawned briefly and then snapped to full attention, idly glancing up at the flashing red light before comm-ing the Bridge.. "Bridge, status," he said impatiently, frowning.

A sudden blast rocked the ship then, and the lights around us flickered. I fervently prayed the emergency protocols would hold in the event of a malfunction, as my idea of a gallant and brave death in space was most definitely _not_ being smashed to bits at the bottom of a turboshaft.

Spock's raised eyebrow seemed to me to say he thought that was a clear enough report, though DeSalle's voice crackled through the static as well. _"The ship refuses to identify itself, Captain, and only replays a message our universal translator keeps interpreting as basically a No Trespassing sign. Lieutenant-Commander Scott reports the warp engines took a direct hit, and we're venting plasma at an alarming rate. They're not pursuing us through evasive maneuvers, however – just firing on us if we swing too close to certain coordinates. I believe it might be a stationary guard ship, sir."_

"Slow to one-quarter impulse, and then begin backing away from it," Kirk commanded, tightening the belt of his robe. "Mr. Spock and I are…" he trailed off, staring incredulously at the floor.

_"Captain?"_

"We'll be right there, Lieutenant, carry on," he replied, still staring. I surreptitiously craned my neck in an attempt to see what exactly had so arrested his attention. "Mr. Spock."

The Vulcan's face showed what looked to me like genuine cluelessness as to the reasons for Kirk's behavior. "Yes, Captain?"

"What in the name of all that's logical have you got on your _feet_?"

Spock glanced downward, and then back up again, entirely unconcerned. "I believe they are a somewhat psychedelic variant of house slippers, sir."

That was a bit of an understatement, in my silent opinion – because I've never seen such a peculiar shade of fluorescent green in my life, shot through with flecks of silver and gold. It looked rather like our genteel First Officer was stepping on two pregnant chartreuse tribbles.

"Well, that I could have told you, Mr. Spock," Kirk retorted, still staring at the offensive items. "But you're never going to convince me that you picked them out yourself!"

"Negative."

Worry lines had faded temporarily from the captain's face into a quizzical smile. "So…?"

"They were a…I was told a _Christmas gift_, from Dr. McCoy, last holiday season." A slight blush colored the tips of Spock's ears, to my fascination; obviously, embarrassment is logical under certain circumstances. "While quite garish, they are nonetheless entirely functional. It would be illogical to not utilize them for their intended purpose."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself, in addition to me," Kirk observed, no longer trying to hide a wicked grin. The man was poking a bear; he is certainly braver than any of us lesser mortals aboard, to so provoke a Vulcan to wrath.

Spock just looked highly affronted, as much as it's possible to look with only eyebrows and a tiny frown for expression. "Certainly not, sir."

"Of course, Mr. Spock." Suddenly realizing that I was still in the lift (I had tried my best to look like I was tuning them both out, though it was next to impossible), Kirk visibly pulled his amusement back under a façade of professionalism, his dancing eyes the only remaining indication. "Your economic use of the resources available to you for your state of health is _quite_ logical."

"Thank you, Captain."

I was, personally, quite proud of the fact that I made it through the entirety of the repairs on the Bridge and back into the lift before finally losing it in a fit of giggles that our fearsome KirkenSpock would never have forgiven had they known. Unfortunately, some less intelligent life form on the Bridge evidently had had a holocamera, and I was then forced to aid Scotty later that week in tracking down and erasing holopics of Spock's dress code violation that began cropping up all over the ship's intranet system.

And if I conveniently didn't notice that one of the pictures had been downloaded onto a portable hard drive in Dr. McCoy's office, well. In Starfleet, we all have our little secrets.


	6. Chapter 6

******Title**: Ingenuity  
**Series**: Tales from the Lower Decks  
**Written for**: **st_20_fics** Table, **Prompt #04 - "I thought you were dead!"**  
**Characters**: Spock, Kirk, OC Matthew Turner (seen elsewhere such as_ A Celebration in Infinite Combinations _and _Insontis_)  
**Warnings/Spoilers:** written by me? :P  
**Series Summary**: The adventures of an ordinary Maintenance man aboard the _Enterprise_, and his observations of the developing trifold powerhouse which is Kirk, Spock, and McCoy.  
**This Bit** **Summary: **Ensign Turner is the first responder on the scene of an accident involving the First Officer. Gratuitous Spock!whump. :P It's my day off, I'm entitled, okay.  
**This Bit Word Count**: 2363

* * *

**Prompt #04 – "I thought you were dead!"**

Firm believer in the equality of race and species, me. No xenophobe gets into Starfleet without being able to hide his tendencies better than a Level Five mind probe will discover, and so thankfully bigotry is a rare thing in the 'Fleet, and frowned upon when it surfaces. Part of the joy of serving aboard a starship is meeting new species (when you're not stuck below decks fixing sinks, that is) and even serving with some of them. Although most of the Federation starships are far more human-populated than any other species, that's due more to the fact that few species in the Federation can successfully serve on a human ship, in human climate and environment. While most species are able to function for short distances in such a human-centric environment, such as transportation to colonies and such, a five-year mission is far too long for most to live comfortably.

For example, Mr. Spock is the only Vulcan I know of who can tolerate serving on a human ship; and he has for over a decade now. How the man doesn't freeze to death is beyond me, although I know the captain's request for a heating vent installed under the science station was a huge hit. Spock is the primary non-human aboard, though there are a few others.

And I'm a firm believer in interspecies cooperation, I really truly am, and it's an honor to serve with one of the primary Vulcan scientists in the Federation.

I just have to wonder sometimes, if Spock _knows_ exactly how creepy he can be, and just delights in screwing with us poor humans.

Just a bit. I _mean_. I was on the observation deck one night about three months back, just knocking about with a sketch pad under the glass dome. Dr. McCoy and the captain were sitting on two of the chairs off in a shadowed corner, just chatting-like, when all of a sudden Mr. Spock melts out of the shadows like some Vulcan Batman and says "Good evening, Doctor, Captain Kirk," in that funereal intone that makes his Science people hide behind their tricorders to watch their lives flash before their eyes.

McCoy was looking twitchy anyway, and he practically jumped out of his chair, then went off on Mr. Spock like any normal human would at being given the jim-jams like that, but the captain only snickered a little into his coffee cup and didn't even bother to say good evening back. Spock faded away a minute later, probably to go do the same thing to some poor snogging couple in one of the alcoves, and life continued as per normal; or whatever constitutes normal on this crazy ship.

But Spock's a hard taskmaster, and an intimidating one. He expects nothing less than perfection from his Science departments – one reason why we receive the top ratings in the 'Fleet year after year – and receives pretty near that from all his personnel, despite his constant hanging over them to check their human inefficiency. Everyone knows half the people in Ops were sent there because they didn't take work in Spock's labs seriously enough, and everything he does is backed by Captain Kirk's firm and wholehearted approval.

Sciences is a bit of a grindstone to work in, on this ship; it's not for the fainthearted, and it's not for the thin-skinned. I was repairing circuitry in Science Lab Twelve once and heard Spock dressing down a lieutenant over a programming mistake that only a Level Three computer expert would catch, and let me tell you – the First Officer is a bit of a frightening alien. And I don't mean that in a xenophobic way, mind – only that he's very much _not_ human in those moments when his people don't produce what he's set for them to.

Still, oddly enough, nobody has ever asked for transfer out of Spock's direct departments; he's transferred some, but none have ever requested it – and that's a record for most departments aboard ship. Obviously, he chose his people with care, and they're thick-skinned enough to see past what looks like an iceberg exterior to see whatever the captain for one obviously has already found.

I fortunately don't have much weekly interaction with Mr. Spock (give me Scotty's smoke and brimstone over Spock's ice any day), and so for a long time had only rumours on which to base my opinions of the fellow. A harsh taskmaster and harsher disciplinarian, though of a gentle race, and a brilliant scientist who demanded such quality from his subordinates without question or excuse.

And then, some idiot in Maintenance – not me this time, and a good thing too because Captain Kirk probably would have said that was the last straw in my ill-fated and mediocre career – didn't realize he spilled oil on a catwalk ladder on Level Nineteen while Mr. Spock was doing a routine department inspection.

I was working on a loose coupling in the intersecting Jefferies Tube when the Commander slipped and fell from nearly twelve feet up. Not far enough for the emergency forcefields to deploy, and too far to land without hope of injury.

He scared the holy hells out of me, because he weighs nearly twice what a human his size would, and from the thud when he hit the floor of the shaft I was sure he'd broken his neck and probably every bone in his spine.

Lucky for him, those weird rumors of his felinoid ancestry apparently had some merit; he'd managed to land on his feet, of all things – whereupon the impact promptly snapped his left leg. That was nasty, but it wouldn't have been the nightmare it turned into had he not hit his head on the side of the shaft and a protruding control unit when he was collapsing.

I'd heard that Vulcans bled green before, every child who's studied xenobiology knows that – but to actually see it starting to puddle underneath the First Officer's head and leg, where a shard of thick white bone was _actually protruding through the skin_?

There was a very good reason I'd never possessed even the remotest desire to go into Medical.

I was just glad I managed to choke out the emergency medical alert into the comm before losing my lunch quietly in the Jefferies Tube next to us (thankfully I had an empty parts container in my toolkit). Feeling a bit better after that lovely interlude, I crawled back to the unconscious commander, and knowing it would be a good five or ten minutes before someone could make it to us, I got my jumpsuit off (glad I wore my uniform underneath that day, because I didn't much fancy running to Sickbay starkers) and put it over him, knowing his body temperature was lower than a human's anyhow. Who knew what going into shock would do for a (literally, not a xenophobe, remember) cold-blooded Vulcan. I didn't dare touch him, because of the head injury and because I'd no idea how the whole touch-telepath thing worked; with my luck I'd send the poor sod into a coma with my rampant human emotions or some such rubbish.

Annnnd then it occurred to me, I hadn't direct-commed Sickbay; I'd voice-commanded the direction, which meant Lieutenant Uhura up on the Bridge would be directing and monitoring the call through normal channels.

Fantastic. Now the captain was probably going to beat the medical team to us, since there was a direct turbolift from the Bridge to this deck, and he was going to _have my head_.

On a platter.

Most likely in marshmallow-sized pieces.

I sighed and gingerly began to climb the ladder to investigate, careful to test each rung; for Spock was graceful as a cat, and he would never have fallen without some sabotage. And sure enough, about twelve feet up, a viscous substance coated a few rungs of the ladder, no doubt dripped from an engineer's oil can attached to a utility belt.

After mopping up the mess as best I could, careful not to spread it further, I heard distant thuds and scurried back down to the Commander's side. He hadn't moved, but when I spoke his name his eyebrows twitched slightly. That was good, right? Or was it just a reflex for the species?

Someone came sliding down the _sides_ of the catwalk ladder instead of taking it rung-by-rung (which actually was good, since there had only been so much I could do to clean the spill with my sleeve), and too bad Riley wasn't with me or I'd've bet money it was the captain being his usual oh-charming-let's-freak-out-the-Security-Chief-by-doing-stupid-things-aboard-ship-for-no-apparent-good-reason self. Sure enough, a second later Captain Kirk dropped to the floor beside me.

I took one look at his face and got myself out of the way, thank you very much.

"Spock? Spock, can you hear me?" There was no answer, and so his attention turned to me. "Report, Ensign."

"Apparently there was a spill on the ladder, Captain, about twelve feet up," I said, gesturing to the ladder he'd just slid down. "I was in the Jefferies Tube repairing a power coupling when I heard the Commander fall; I came out, and after investigating found something on three of the rungs, sir."

Kirk's eyes flashed, and I cringed internally; one thing the usually amiable man refused to tolerate was an accident due to someone's carelessness. The fact that it was Commander Spock who met the accident only meant that heads would roll _faster_. "And you believe it was…?"

"Oil, I believe sir; most likely from a Maintenance oil can hanging on a tool belt. Not mine, sir," I hastily added, turning in a circle to show him that I wasn't wearing anything but an anti-grav belt for security purposes.

The captain raised an eyebrow and then to my surprise chuckled briefly. "No need to give me the full runway walk, Turner; I believe you," he said, taking the time to smile reassuringly at me though his attention immediately turned back to his unconscious First.

Spock suddenly winced, a hand flying up to his head – which was a bit scary, more than anything, because it was the first time I'd ever seen him look anything other than stone-faced Vulcan.

"Spock? Come on, Spock. Hey," the captain said quietly, as the Commander's eyes finally flickered open. And as if the poor fellow wasn't creeping me out enough, he winced again and this weird cat eyelid thing slid down over his eyes against the light. "Can you understand me, Commander?"

"Well enough, sir," the Vulcan rasped, and the sound was as painful as nails on wet brick.

"Good. You have a head injury and a compound fracture of your lower left leg, I can't tell more without touching you." Kirk leaned closer when the Commander looked to be drifting away again. "Focus, Spock! Focus on my voice," he repeated, much less sharp this time. "I need you to focus that healing sense and report, tell me what to tell McCoy."

"Request he…refrain from his standard pain relievers, Captain."

Kirk nodded, never blinking. "Due to?"

"Concussive effects include nausea, sir. His potions will only exacerbate that current condition."

"Well, you can't be too bad off if you can still spit out words like _exacerbate_ without slurring," Kirk said gently, smiling. His hand hovered uncertainly over the commander's torn trouser leg, fingers twitching but not landing. "Can you focus enough to block the pain from your leg? It's going to be nasty trying to move you if you can't."

"Unknown…sir." A shiver shook the Commander's thin figure, and the words were longer this time in coming; I saw frown lines beginning to form between the captain's brows. I moved to a wall panel and removed the cover, fused a few wires and jury-rigged a circuit board.

Kirk cast me an incredulous eye. "Turner, what the devil are you doing?"

"Trying to give him some heat, sir," I muttered, not really listening, as I finally was able to hack into the environmental control coupling junction two corridors over, and divert the heat to the now wide-open ventilation shaft. A furious blast of hot air, heated straight from the warp engine coils, suddenly washed over us, immediately ratcheting up the temperature at least ten degrees. "Ha! Knew Scotty's unorthodox training would pay off someday!"

"Well done…Ensign." Spock's voice was not weird just because the poor guy was shaking with shock and probably pain – but because Vulcan praise for accomplishments, unusual or not, was very rare and, according to his people, very cherished for that reason.

"Thank you, Turner," Kirk echoed, squeezing my shoulder as I returned to crouch beside the injured Commander.

Spock looked pretty bad, a pasty sort of grey colour, and was shivering on the cold floor, but I knew if it'd been my leg poking through my trousers I'd be emptying my guts all over the floor so I couldn't blame the poor fellow for any non-strictly-Vulcan indications of that kind of injury and the pain that accompanied it.

"Try again to block it, Spock," Kirk instructed gently. Obviously the man knew what he was talking about, though I'd no idea. "McCoy will be here soon, but you have to focus enough to block the pain if you want him to not drug you."

I'd like to think it was my jury-rigged space heater, but it was probably more Mr. Spock's stubborn determination and that weird fingers-on-the-face bit that Captain Kirk was doing, but finally I could see from the captain's expression that the Commander had succeeded in whatever he was attempting.

Then, as if my life wasn't busy enough, I got to witness firsthand, Dr. Leonard H. McCoy having an entirely-medical-and-not-emotionally-compromised-at-all-what-the-blue-blazes-are-you-talking-about-Nurse freakout, complete with so much mutual name calling and species slurring that if I didn't know the First Officer and CMO were what the lower decks called _best frenemies_ I'd be tempted to report the man for xenophobia and Mr. Spock for denigrating a subordinate's professional capabilities.

And the captain for giggling in the corner at both of them.

This ship.

_Insane_, I tell you, the lot of them.


End file.
